by Jo Nesbo
‘Let me . . .’ Simon began, but Fredrik had already slipped his credit card into the payment terminal the waiter had brought and was pressing the keypad.
‘It was good to see you again and I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help you,’ Fredrik said when the waiter had disappeared and Simon could sense that the pressure on the seat of Fredrik’s chair had already eased.
‘Did you read about the Iversen killing yesterday?’
‘Oh God, I did, yes.’ Fredrik shook his head, took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Iver Iversen is one of our clients. A tragedy.’
‘He was already a client of yours when you worked for the Serious Fraud Office, I believe.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘A suspect, I mean. It’s a great shame that everyone with your qualifications quit. With people like you on the team we might have been able to bring the case to trial. The property business needs overhauling; we used to agree about that, don’t you remember, Fredrik?’
Fredrik put on his sunglasses again. ‘You always did gamble with high stakes, Simon.’
Simon nodded. So Fredrik did know why Simon had suddenly changed departments.
‘Talking of gambling,’ Simon said. ‘I’m only a stupid cop without a degree in finance, but whenever I read Iversen’s accounts, I always wondered how that company managed to stay afloat. It was hopeless at buying and selling property; most of the time it suffered considerable losses.’
‘Yes, but it was always good at managing property.’
‘Blessed be losses you can carry forward. Because of them Iversen has hardly paid any tax on his operating profits in the last few years.’
‘Good heavens, you sound as if you’re back with the Serious Fraud Office.’
‘My password still gets me access to the old files. I stayed up last night reading them on my computer.’
‘Did you? But there’s nothing illegal about that, those are the tax rules.’
‘Yes,’ Simon said, resting his chin on his hand and looking up at the blue sky. ‘And you would know; after all, you investigated Iversen. Perhaps Agnete Iversen was killed by an embittered tax collector.’
‘What?’
Simon laughed briefly and got up. ‘Just an old man winding you up. Thanks for lunch.’
‘Simon?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but I’ll ask around about your loan.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Simon said and buttoned up his jacket. ‘Bye.’
He didn’t need to turn round; he knew that Fredrik was watching him pensively as he walked away.
Lars Gilberg put down the newspaper he had found in the rubbish bin outside 7-Eleven that would serve as tonight’s pillow. He saw that page after page was about the murder of this rich woman from the west side of Oslo. If the victim had been some poor sod who had died from a contaminated overdose down by the river or in Skippergata, he would barely have warranted a few lines. A hotshot from Kripos, a man called Bjørnstad, announced that every available resource would be deployed in the investigation. Oh, really? How about first catching the mass murderers who mixed arsenic and rat poison in the drugs they sold? Gilberg peered out from his shadowland. The figure approaching him wore a hoodie and looked like one of the regular joggers who included the path along the river in their running route. But he had spotted Gilberg, was slowing down, and Lars Gilberg presumed him to be either a cop or a posh boy looking for speed. It wasn’t until he was under the bridge and had pulled back his hood that Gilberg recognised the boy. He was sweaty and out of breath.
Gilberg got up from his groundsheet, eager, happy almost. ‘Hello, lad. I’ve looked after your stuff, you know, it’s still there.’ He nodded towards the bushes.
‘Thank you,’ the boy said, squatting down and checking his pulse. ‘But I was wondering if you could do me another favour.’
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘Thank you. Which dealers sell Superboy?’
Lars Gilberg closed his eyes. Dammit. ‘Don’t do it, lad. Not Superboy.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I can name three people killed by that shit this summer alone.’
‘Who sells the purest goods?’
‘I don’t know about purity. It’s not my poison. But the dealer is easy, only one outlet in this town sells Superboy. The dealers always work in pairs. One has the drugs and the other takes the money. They hang out under Nybrua.’
‘What do they look like?’
‘It varies, but usually the money man is a stocky, acne-scarred guy with short hair. He’s the boss, but he likes being on the street and handling the money himself. He’s a suspicious bastard, doesn’t trust his dealers.’
‘Stocky and acne-scarred?’
‘Yes, he’s easy to recognise from his eyelids. It’s like they hang down over his eyes and make him look sleepy. You get me?’
‘Do you mean Kalle?’
‘Y’know ’im?’
The boy nodded slowly.
‘Then you know what happened to his eyelids?’
‘What are his opening hours, do you know?’ the boy asked.
‘They’re there from four o’clock to nine o’clock. I know this because the first customers start queuing half an hour before. And the last ones come racing, just before nine, like rats up a drainpipe, in case they miss him.’
The boy put his hood back up. ‘Thanks, mate.’
‘Lars. My name is Lars.’
‘Thanks, Lars. Do you need anything? Money?’
Lars always needed money. He shook his head. ‘What’s your name?’
The boy shrugged. The what-do-you-want-me-to-be-called? shrug. Then he continued his run.
Martha was sitting in reception when he came up the stairs and continued straight past her.
‘Stig!’ she called out.
It took a moment too long before he stopped. Now that could be down to his generally impaired reflexes. Or that his name wasn’t Stig. He was sweating; it looked as if he had been running. She hoped it wasn’t away from trouble.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ she said. ‘Wait!’
She picked up the box, told Maria she would be back in a couple of minutes and hurried after him. She touched his elbow lightly with her hand. ‘Come on, we’ll go up to yours and Johnny’s.’
When they entered the room, they were met by an unexpected sight. The curtains were drawn so that the room lay bathed in light, there was no Johnny and the air was fresh because one of the windows had been opened – as much as the window lock permitted. The council had told them to install window locks in every room after several incidents where pedestrians on the pavement below had come close to being hit by the large, heavy objects which were regularly hurled from the centre’s windows; radios, speakers, stereos and the occasional television. The centre’s residents got through a lot of electrical goods, but it was organic material which had triggered the order. Due to the extensive social phobia rampant among the residents, they were often reluctant to use the communal toilets. So a few had been given permission to keep a bucket in their room which they emptied at regular – though sadly sometimes irregular – intervals. One of the irregulars had kept his bucket on the windowsill so that he could open the window and get rid of the worst smells. One day, a staff member had opened the door to the room and the draught had blown over the bucket. It was during the renovation of the new patisserie and as fate would have it a painter was on a ladder directly below the window. The painter had escaped without permanent injury, but Martha – who had been the first person to arrive at the scene and come to the assistance of the shocked man – knew that the incident had left him mentally scarred.
‘Sit down,’ she said, pointing to the chair. ‘And take off your shoes.’
He did as he was told. She opened the box.
‘I didn’t want the others to see them,’ she said and took out a pair of soft, black leather shoes. ‘They were my father’s,’ she said, ha
nding them to him. ‘You take about the same size.’
He looked so surprised that she felt herself blushing.
‘We can’t send you to a job interview in trainers,’ she added hastily.
She looked around the room while he put them on. She wasn’t sure, but thought she could smell detergent. The cleaners hadn’t been here today, as far as she knew. She walked up to a photograph attached to the wall with a drawing pin.
‘Who is that?’
‘My father,’ he said.
‘Really? A police officer?’
‘Yes. Look.’
She turned to him. He had got up and pressed first his right foot and then his left on the floor.
‘And?’
‘They’re a perfect fit,’ he smiled. ‘Thank you so much, Martha.’
She jumped when he said her name. It wasn’t that she wasn’t used to hearing it, the residents used their first names all the time. Surnames, home addresses and the names of family members were, however, confidential; after all, the staff witnessed drug dealing every day. But there was something about the way he said it. Like a touch. Careful and innocent, but just as tangible. She realised it was inappropriate for her to be alone with him in the room; her initial assumption had been that Johnny would be here as well. She wondered where he could be; the only things that could make Johnny get out of bed were drugs, the toilet or food. In that order. And yet she stayed where she was.
‘What kind of job are you looking for?’ she asked. She was aware she sounded slightly breathless.
‘Something in the judicial system,’ he said gravely. There was something very sweet about this earnestness. Almost precocious.
‘A bit like your father?’
‘No, police officers work for the executive power. I want to work for the judicial power.’
She smiled. He was so different. Perhaps that was the reason she had been thinking about him, because he was nothing like the other addicts. And he was so very different from Anders as well. Where Anders always had steely control, this guy seemed open and vulnerable. Where Anders was suspicious and dismissive of people he had yet to know and possibly give his seal of approval to, Stig seemed friendly, kind, naive almost.
‘I’ve got to go now,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he said, leaning against the wall. He had unzipped his hoodie. The T-shirt underneath was soaked in sweat and stuck to his body.
He was about to say something when her walkie-talkie crackled.
She raised it to her ear.
She had a visitor.
‘What were you going to say?’ she asked when she had acknowledged the message.
‘It can wait,’ the boy said and smiled.
It was the older police officer again.
He was waiting for her at reception.
‘They let me in,’ he said apologetically.
Martha looked reproachfully at Maria, who held up her hands in a what’s-the-big-deal? gesture.
‘Do you have somewhere we can . . .?’
Martha took him into the meeting room, but didn’t offer him coffee.
‘Do you know what this is?’ he asked, holding up his mobile phone so she could see the screen.
‘A picture of some soil?’
‘It’s a shoeprint. That probably doesn’t mean very much to you, but I’ve been wondering why I thought that shoeprint seemed so familiar. And then I realised it’s because I’ve seen it at so many potential crime scenes. You know, places where we find dead bodies. Mostly as tracks in the snow at a container port, in a drug den, near a drug dealer in a backyard, in a World War II bunker doubling up as a shooting gallery. In short . . .’
‘In short, places frequented by the type of people who live here.’ Martha sighed.
‘Exactly. Death is usually self-inflicted, but whatever the cause, this shoeprint keeps reappearing. Those blue army trainers have become the most common footwear for drug addicts and homeless people across all of Norway because the Salvation Army and Bymisjonen hand them out. And therefore they are completely useless as evidence, there are too many of them on the feet of people with criminal records.’
‘So what are you doing here, Chief Inspector Kefas?’
‘They no longer make these trainers and those in use wear out. But if you look carefully at the picture, you’ll see that the shoeprint has a clear pattern, meaning these trainers are new. I checked with the Salvation Army and they told me that they sent their last batch of blue trainers to you in March of this year. So my question is simply: have you handed out any shoes like this since the spring? Size 8½.’
‘The answer is yes, of course.’
‘Who—’
‘Lots.’
‘Size—’
‘Size 8½ is the most common shoe size for men in the Western world – also among drug users, as it happens. I’m not able or prepared to tell you anything more than that.’ Martha looked at him with tightened lips.
Now the police officer sighed. ‘I respect your loyalty to the residents. But we’re not talking about a gram of speed here, this is a murder inquiry. I found this shoeprint where that woman up at Holmenkollåsen was shot and killed yesterday. Agnete Iversen.’
‘Iversen?’ Martha suddenly felt breathless again. How odd. But then again the therapist who had given her the diagnosis ‘compassion fatigue’ had told her to look out for signs of stress.
Chief Inspector Kefas tilted his head slightly to one side. ‘Yes, Iversen. It’s had a lot of press coverage. Shot on the doorstep of her home—’
‘Yes, yes, I saw some headlines. But I never read such stories, we have enough upset in this job. If you know what I mean.’
‘I do. Her name was Agnete Iversen. Forty-nine years old. Previously in business, now a housewife. Married with a twenty-year-old son. Chair of the local Women’s Institute. A generous donor to the Norwegian Tourist Association. So she probably qualifies as a pillar of the community.’
Martha coughed. ‘How can you be sure that the shoeprint belongs to the killer?’
‘We can’t. But we found a partial shoeprint with the victim’s blood in the bedroom, and that shoeprint could match this one.’
Martha coughed again. She ought to get it checked out by a doctor.
‘But suppose I could remember the name of anyone given size 8½ trainers, how can you know which ones are from the crime scene?’
‘I’m not sure that we could, but it looks as if the killer stepped in the victim’s blood and it got into the sole pattern. And if it’s coagulated, there could still be blood traces left in the grooves.’
‘I understand,’ Martha said.
Chief Inspector Kefas waited.
She got up. ‘But I’m afraid I’m no use to you. Of course I can check with the other staff members, see if they remember a size 8½.’
The police officer stayed where he was as if to give her a chance to change her mind. And tell him something. Then he too got up and handed her his card.
‘Thank you, I appreciate that. Call me, day or night.’
Martha stayed in the meeting room after Chief Inspector Kefas had left. She bit her lower lip.
She had told him the truth. 8½. It was the most common shoe size for men.
‘Closing time,’ Kalle announced. It was nine o’clock and the sun was starting to set behind the buildings on the riverbank. He took the last hundred-krone notes and put them in his money belt. He had heard that in St Petersburg drug dealers carrying cash were robbed so often that the mafia had given them steel money belts that were welded around their waists. The belt had a thin slit into which you inserted the money and a code known only to the guy in the back office, so that dealers couldn’t be tortured into revealing it to any robbers or be tempted to steal the cash themselves. The dealer had to sleep, eat, crap and screw with the money belt in place, but even so Kalle had given the option serious consideration. He was bored out of his wits standing here evening after evening.
‘Please!’ It was one of those emaciat
ed junkie bitches, all skin and bone, skin stretched across her skull Holocaust-style.
‘Tomorrow,’ Kalle said and started to walk away.
‘I have to have some!’
‘We’re all out,’ he lied and signalled to Pelvis, his dealer, to walk on.
She started crying. Kalle felt no compassion, these people just had to learn that the shop shut at nine o’clock and that it was no good turning up at two minutes past. Of course he could have hung around till ten past, quarter past even, to sell to those who managed to scrape together the money at the last minute. But ultimately it was about getting the work/life balance right, knowing when he could go home. Nor would staying open for longer improve his profit margin as they had the monopoly on Superboy; she would be back when they opened tomorrow.
She grabbed his arm, but Kalle shrugged her off. She stumbled onto the grass and fell to her knees.
‘It’s been a good day,’ Pelvis remarked as they walked briskly down the path. ‘How much, do you think?’
‘What do you think?’ Kalle snapped at him. Even multiplying the number of bags by the price was beyond this moron. You just couldn’t get the staff these days.
Before they crossed the bridge, he looked over his shoulder to check they weren’t being followed. It was a habit he had acquired long ago, the result of his dearly bought experience of being a drug dealer carrying too much cash, a robbery victim who would never report anything to the police. Dearly bought experience acquired on a summer’s day by the river when he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes open and had nodded off on a bench with 300,000 kroner’s worth of heroin he was going to sell for Nestor. When he woke up, the drugs were gone, obviously. Nestor had sought him out the next day and explained that the boss had been kind enough to give Kalle a choice. Both thumbs – because he had been so clumsy. Or both eyelids because he had fallen asleep on the job. Kalle had chosen the eyelids. Two men dressed in suits, one dark-haired and one blond, had pinned him down while Nestor pulled out his eyelids and sliced them off with his hideous, curved Arabic knife. Afterwards Nestor had – also on the boss’s instructions – given Kalle money for a taxi to the hospital. Surgeons had explained that in order to give him new eyelids, they would need to graft skin from another area of his body and that he was lucky he wasn’t Jewish and hadn’t been circumcised. It turned out that the foreskin was the type of skin whose properties most closely resembled those of eyelids. All things considered, the operation had been a success and Kalle’s standard answer to anyone who asked how he’d lost his eyelids was that he’d had an accident with some acid and that the new skin had been grafted from his thigh. Someone else’s thigh, he explained, if the person asking was a woman in his bed, who demanded to see the scar. And that he was a quarter Jewish, in case she was wondering about that as well.
